Thieves Like Us

Theft is a regrettable occurrence. Both stealing and being stolen from – most of us have experiences of both. Usually, it’s over some trivial thing, not a bank heist or a train robbery. One can also steal time and space. We do that all the time without even realizing it. ”You’re taking all my time!” is an exclamation familiar to everyone. Or at least, it’s a thought that crosses our minds when dealing with certain individuals.

Tapiola in the 60s was by no means a paradise for thieves. There were, of course, plenty of children and teenagers in every suburb by the hundreds. It’d have been remarkable if nothing had happened at all.

On the ground floor of Mäntytorni, the highrise in the middle of the original center of Tapiola, there was a bookshop, Mäntykirja. Initially, the shop was small, just the size of a single room. A bank operated right next door. When the bank moved into larger premises at a commercial property built next to Mäntytorni, a reasonably sized space was freed up for books and other paper goods.

Mäntykirja didn’t just sell books. It held a good selection – already as a one-room shop – of arts and crafts supplies and toys. Assembly models from Airfix and Revell, as well as Matchbox and Corgi Toys cars, often lured a group of young boys into the store to splurge their pocket money. Or maybe we just looked and examined the selection on the corner shelf. The toy cars were imported from Great Britain, and were therefore relatively expensive. Matchbox models were, true to their name, about the size of a matchbox and didn’t usually have opening doors or a hatchback. Corgis had both. But the price was several times higher.

Villa-Kerä, the real toy store, which was in the same property as the bank, was a large shop – by the standards of that era. The store was on two levels and had a sales staff of several people. The risk of being caught was too high with the stern shop owner watching hawk-eyed over the especially pricey Märklin miniature trains and carriages, right next to the car selection.

So, when the idea of renewing the car fleet by illegal means arose, all eyes turned to Mäntykirja. The small bookstore often had customers crammed to its brim with just one or two sellers. I don’t know where the idea of stealing toy cars began. Perhaps the awareness that above the Matchbox cars on the store’s shelves were grand Corgi cars in their fine boxes, gradually grew from a mere spoken thought to a concrete plan of action. Heikki, Pekka and I knew the maze of the store like the back of our hands, as we were regular customers.

The idea was in all its simplicity the traditional one: two guys fuss around the counter making purchases, capturing the saleslady’s attention while the third one stuffs cars into the pockets of a loose jacket and sneaks out. The ladies of course knew us by face and perhaps even by name. Pekka and I did the misdirection and Heikki did the dirty work. The operation was a success. We sat on the edge of the sandbox of building B admiring the fancy cars. The grandest was a burgundy red, large Citroen with doors and a trunk that opened. The heist was such a breeze that in our naivety, we decided to pull off another car theft a couple of days later.

We open the door to the store. There’s nobody else in there. Only a friendly smiling saleslady. I sense something strange is about to happen. The woman closes the door behind us and looks at us with sad eyes. We move around, feeling uncomfortable. My suspicion proves right. I start to feel scared.

– Hey boys, I saw what happened on Tuesday. Why did you steal cars? That’s theft, and stealing is ugly.
– We… I don’t know why we… Sorry, it was a stupid thing, Pekka says.
– If the cars are still fine, you can return them and the matter will be settled. But you must promise you will never steal again.
– They’re almost fine. The boxes went into the trash, but we can dive them. And we swear we will never steal again! I exclaim, relieved.

Fortunately, the C-house’s trash cans have just been emptied on Monday. We find the boxes. One of them, the box of that fancy Citroën, is a bit stained, but the kind lady from the bookstore manages to clean it. With vows taken, the three cheerful robbers leave Mäntykirja bookstore in high spirits.

One would have thought that I learned from that incident. In a child’s mind, time works intensively. Every day, something new and revolutionary happens. A week is a long time, a month is an eternity. A year later, the incident at the bookstore had been completely forgotten.

I collected Pirate-Jenkki chewing gum cards. The fierce pirates with their swords and pistols fascinated my imagination. The flintlock pistol looked particularly sturdy in the drawings. The noise of the attack, huge clouds of smoke, the smell of gunpowder, the whistling of bullets, and the thunder of cannons; all came to life as I was browsing the cards.

Once, when my father and I were buying renovation supplies at Tapiontori’s RAKE hardware store, I started examining the products in the glass display case standing in the middle of the store. Small cars, Lego sets, dollhouse furniture – and a flintlock pirate pistol! My father had made his purchases and came over to hurry me home.

– Look, dad. That’s exactly the same gun as in those gum pictures. Could you buy one of those for my birthday?
– We can’t afford to buy toys now. Hundreds of marks are going to the apartment renovation.

I knew it would be useless to continue begging. Grandma will certainly agree to my request. The next time we are in Pika-Elanto buying groceries, I will lure Grandma to the nearby RAKE store. The timing is poor. Grandma complains that money is running low and it’s such a long time until the pension is paid. Besides, she has already bought me a present. We walk leisurely carrying our grocery bags back to Menninkäisentie. The pirate pistol won’t let me go. Every time I go through my collection of gum cards, it feels like every picture has a great pistol. Pirates also appear in my dreams.

I take my Pyrkijä bicycle from the garage and head towards Tapiontori using the bike path that runs behind the swimming pool. I have no plan, but the RAKE draws me in like a magnet. I hop off the saddle on the tiled ground by the PYP bank. I walk the bike past the sports store. Past the Pika-Elanto and RAKE. I look at the window of the clock shop. I walk past the shoe store, the post office, and the bank. I stop by the fountain. My heart is pounding, my head is spinning. I wipe my sweaty hands on my trouser leg. I start another round. From RAKE’s window, I see my own pale reflection. I pass the entrance with my bike, kick down the stand and fumble with trembling hands to lock the bike.

I step into the store. The shop is buzzing with customers. All the sales people are busy. The chatter, the clinking and clanging of the hardware store fill the shop. There’s no one by the toy case. I sneak glances in every direction. I let my gaze wander from shelf to shelf. The gun is in its place, as well as the little leather bag with bullets. Behind them is the box of the toy. Good, I think. The box can stay. The pistol fits into my jacket pocket. I glance around once more. The beats of my heart pound in my head, my ears are humming. I open the sliding glass door. I push my hand inside and snatch the pistol and bullets. I slip them into my pocket. Carefully close the sliding door. A quick glance towards the cashier. My limbs feel heavy. It takes all my effort to move my legs. A few steps towards the door. Someone opens the door! An incoming customer holds the door open for me. I nod in thanks. I’m outside. The bike key slips from my sweaty hands onto the concrete slab. I feel the blood rush to my face. I pick up the key. The bike lock opens. I walk the bike down the alley. I leap onto the saddle. I kick the bike into motion. Turn right, down the pram ramp, over the street and parking lot. Around the corner of the school, I finally remember to breathe. The heist is a success!

In the dim light of our garage, I examine my loot. Pirate pistol… How it looked so fancy in the glass case. The pistol is the size of my hand. The leather bag is actually plastic. The flintlock moves with the power of a small spring. I drop a ball into the barrel. I release the lock with my thumb. The lock clicks quietly, the plastic ball flies a few feet and rolls into the floor drain. A faint splash is heard. I stuff the pistol and ball bag into the pocket of my trousers. Disappointment mixes with regret and fear.

The evening has turned into night. I’m tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep. My conscience won’t leave me in peace. I sob quietly. My mother comes to my bedside.

– Rob, what’s wrong? Are you sick? Let me feel your forehead.
– Mom! I stole the pirate gun from RAKE. I feel awful.
– What!

My mother is angry, but my sincere remorse, blurred by tears, makes an impression. The conversation culminates in a collective plan to return the weapon. We both agree that no one will notice a single missing bullet.

The next day, we step into the RAKE store. My mother has actual business in the paint department. With a paint can in one hand and a handbag in the other, she stops at the toy cabinet with me. My mother whispers in my ear and I nod. Swiftly, she puts the unfortunate pirate pistol back in its place. We leave the store in a calm and stylish manner. Outside, the moment I’ve been expecting arrives.

– Rob. Let this be the last time you get me involved in such actions. The theft stops here. Is that clear?
– I will never nick anything again. I promise. Thank you, mom!

The promise was kept. Or, well, almost. But it wasn’t shoplifting when I sneaked a ten and a five bill from my father’s wallet. I absolutely had to buy the Batmobile from Tapiontori’s toy store. In fact, the home robbery had a much higher risk than stealing a toy from a store. The shopkeeper would hardly have whipped me with a belt even if I had been caught.

Bicycle thefts are not just a modern plague. If you left your bike unlocked in front of a store or at the swimming pool’s rack in Tapiola, you could be sure that someone else had taken it. Bicycle thefts had their differences – like night and day. You could say a final goodbye to a bike stolen during the day. At night, some tired walker simply ”borrowed” your bike and dumped it in a street gutter near their home. Simo’s bike, stolen from the Kolmirinne yard on a spring night, was found intact at the Oravannahkatori R-kiosk’s rack, even the tires full of air.

Veli-Matti has received as a birthday gift what every boy in the yard has dreamed of. The golden, three-speed Crescent shimmers in the summer sun like an unattainable mirage. The bike is magnificent. Even a ten-year-old can see the quality of Swedish workmanship. The matte glow of the aluminum rims, the shiny black cables, pump rack, package rack, front brake, and the Crescent’s crest adorning the front light; every detail is impeccable. Even the rear light shines brightly in the evening twilight when the gang of boys heads out for a test round, cruising on Tapiola’s bike paths.

We are playing football at Silkkiniitty the entire long summer afternoon. As the evening comes, fatigue sets in and the setting sun signals that it is time to go home for dinner. We pass by Veli-Matti’s chicken coop row house bouncing the ball. Veli-Matti freezes on the spot, rushes into the yard and frantically rings the doorbell. Something is wrong. The gang of boys stops to watch the drama. His new bicycle is gone! The Crescent has been stolen from under his home window, in the middle of a bright evening. Veli-Matti sits on the stone steps and sobs. His father and mother sternly ask us what we have done. The adults’ confusion spreads to us. Everyone is talking and shouting over each other.

Soon, the course of events is clear: Veli-Matti had been swimming with Pekka in Westend in the morning, cycled home to eat, and went to play football at Silkkiniitty after hearing the shouts and screams of a ball game. The bike had been left unlocked. Some brazen thief had led the bike to the end of the yard path and pedaled away. Suddenly, the whole Kolmirinne area is full of intense action. Playmates organize into bike patrols to examine the surrounding area, adults rake the backyard forest and the trenches of Vallihaudat, a couple of car owners leave to roam the outskirts of the city after receiving the identifying features of the bike. The evening darkens into night. The golden Crescent is never found.

Two weeks later, Veli-Matti curves into the courtyard of B-house with a new bike. The bike has three gears, but the brand has changed. The blue and white bike is the same brand as mine, Pyrkijä. In Tapiola, you can’t be without your own bike, and as the son of a wealthy family, Veli-Matti doesn’t have to settle for his brother’s old bicycle. The incident has great significance for the entire Kolmirinne boy pack. Bikes are remembered to be locked, even if just nipping into Pika-Elanto.

Wager-Musiikki, record and instruments store, at Heikintori was like my own music room at home. It never even crossed my mind to steal records from there. I knew many people had done so. I also witnessed a couple of singles disappearing into my friend’s shirt collar. I also felt obligated by the small cash discount I received. When drugs became a part of the Tapiola youth scene in the late 60s, stolen record sellers could be found at the restaurants of Heikin Vintti and Kultakukko. Their sales techniques were intrusive and reeked of violence. My luck was that I could say with a serious face that I already had Santana’s Abraxas, and it was even the version with a cover.

At one point, my father had his own business, importing rubber and plastic products. Along with large shipments, all sorts of extra trinkets came: keychains, clay molds, promotional caps, and whatnot. Most of the stuff went directly to our backyard store, which Hassan and I ran.

Once I came into possession of a pair of plastic pumps. By squeezing the accordion-like pump part between my hands, liquid would transfer from container A to container B. We played jungle warfare with plastic soldiers in the yard. With the pump, we created a suitable monsoon to drench Sergeant Johnson’s team. A couple of grown-up boys watched the playful battle with interest. However, their interest was not focused on the outcome of the fight but rather on the nifty accordion pump. One of them, the proud owner of a second hand NSU Prinz, asked me where I got such a gadget. I replied that I had another one just like it, which I had put up for sale in the backyard store. The deal was made instantly. I received a princely sum of three marks, which meant a movie ticket and a bag of candy for the evening show at Kino Tapiola.

Later, when the NSU guy came to demand his money back, I found out what the pump had been used for. Lockable gas tank caps were rare at that time. The guys had driven the NSU next to another car, opened the caps of both cars, and pumped fuel into their own car. Everything had gone well until one of the plastic hoses had come loose and slipped into the stranger’s car tank. I told him I had already spent almost all the money on a movie. 50 pennies were left. That was acceptable – as well as a full tank of stolen gasoline.

The boys grew up. Some moved on from petty theft and store robberies to more serious crimes. The social circle in Tapiola was wide. Schools, confirmation camps, sports clubs, discos, and shared hobbies expanded the circle to include perhaps hundreds of people who could be counted as acquaintances, if not friends, and whom I knew by their appearance and name. Rumors and legends circulated from mouth to mouth. There were talks of car and motorcycle thefts. The act of stealing a motorcycle became concrete when my friend and I stumbled upon a large Honda 750 motorcycle hastily covered with branches and reeds while bird-watching in Laajalahti. We pushed the Honda to the Otaniemi police station.

Soon after that incident, news spread throughout Tapiola that two known troublemakers had stolen a motorcycle and crashed into a delivery van at high speed. Both of them had died instantly. The gruesome fate of these guys made many ponder where the line is, beyond which one becomes a criminal who has to pay for their actions in prison. The alternative seemed to be an untimely and pointless death.